Oro y Plata Excelsius
by trustno1-1987
Summary: Dammit, if reporters weren't the bane of society... DL fic, spoilers for 318


Title: **Oro y Plata, Excelsior**

Author: trustno1-1987

Pairing: D/L

Rating: PG/K something like that.

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI:NY or anything affiliated with it. Surprisingly enough. Suing me would be a pointless exercise :-)

A/N: Figured I'd jump on the whole 3/18 fics bandwagon (so there are spoilers for the ep). One-shot, posted here because it asked very nicely to be.

Summary: Dammit, if reporters weren't the bane of society...

* * *

_A running faucet. Cold, hard tiles. Quick, shallow, shaky breaths._

"I remember being scared that whoever was out there might hear it."

_Footsteps. Dangerously slow and deliberate. A metallic smell assaulting my nostrils._

I turn my head and close my eyes as a barrage of memories bears down on me, threatening once again to overwhelm me.

A soft creak and shuffling feet draw my attention to the back of the courtroom, and everything fades; the past that I've been running from but cruelly forced to confront fades. I can finally see something other than the smug face of my friends' murderer. I can see my future.

He's just walked through the doors.

His clear eyes hold mine for an eternity; he doesn't smile. He doesn't need to. But as he slips into a seat at the back, I lower my head again, this time to hide the beginnings of a disbelieving smile.

"Miss Monroe?" Crystal clear, the lawyers voice penetrates and bursts the blissful fog cocooning me, bringing me back to the courtroom. I sit up, taking a deep breath of air that somehow seems sweeter, and my eyes are drawn to his as the lawyer finishes questioning me.

I

"Court is adjourned; awaiting the jury's decision."

A flurry of activity and movement. The gravel bangs down – a gunshot. I jump, and his hand is on my arm, stilling me. I offer him a small smile, which he returns, albeit cautiously.

The courtroom is empty, the prosecutor the last to leave, signalling that he'll call when they reach a verdict – he's optimistic, saying it shouldn't be long.

We stand slowly – he seems tired – and I turn to him, willing my hands not to seize hold of him. I'm still not sure if I'm hallucinating or not. He solves my dilemma by grabbing me, pulling me flush against his body, but not before I see the anger, exhaustion, relief, and something I've never seen flit across his face in quick succession. I file it away, slipping my arms around his waist.

It's astounding – he's 2000 miles from home, I'm ten years in the past, yet we've met in the middle.

He pulls away, gazing down at me with a proper Danny Messer smile. My heart skips a beat. Or two. I smile back, my right hand sliding from his waist, to his arm, to his hand, holding it tightly.

"Coffee?"

From the expression on his face you would've thought I'd offered him a million dollars.

II

We went the long way round out of the courthouse, avoiding the hoards of reporters. No words were exchanged until we reached the front of the queue at the coffee shop, and then it was to place our orders. Filled to bursting with lunchtime traffic, we manoeuvre our way into the street, sitting on a small stone wall next to the shop.

Coffee is truly a gift from God.

I gulp the bitter-sweet liquid down in a minute, glancing every so often to the woman sitting next to me, coffee in hand, eyes closed, face turned to the sun.

My empty coffee carton goes into a trashcan with a well-placed throw. Hers, I remove from her hands – they shake slightly, then are still – and put next to me, turning and dipping my head to look into her eyes.

Deep brown eyes, fearful but underlain with strength, gazed back at me, the naked emotion startling me. Words still forming in my mouth die there, and I slide my arm around her waist instead.

I

We're sitting towards the back of the room. Her left side is pressed against mine, a warm, comforting weight against the palpable anxiety that hangs over the room.

"Will the defendant please rise."

She takes a deep breath, as though she's about to plunge into the ocean, and I catch her eye. She meets my eyes, pleading; uneasiness is painted on her face. I want nothing more than to erase it forever.

"Madam foreman, you've reached a verdict?"

A small hand slips under my arm. Fingers grasp mine tightly, and I give them a reassuring squeeze. Our joined hands rest lightly on my leg.

"In the matter of the people versus Daniel Cadence…"

Christ.

The woman's voice fades as we both stiffen at the same time. Now she squeezes my hand, running her thumb lightly over mine.

I never knew his name.

"…guilty, of murder in the first degree."

A collective sigh and barely restrained cheers fill the courtroom. I bring our hands up to my chest in a private cheer. I almost feel the weight lifting from her shoulders, and quietly rejoice; it's finally over for her.

Glancing over at her, she has her eyes closed, a relieved smile transforming her face. Her head falls to my shoulder and I wish I could stop time. Ironic really, since she's been living by the past for so long. But now, she – we – can move forward.

Rising reluctantly, I let go of her hand, moving it to her waist as I pull her in for a congratulatory hug. Lasting barely two seconds, it was completely different to our first hug in a smoky apartment, where we clung desperately, fearfully to each other. Different to the hug before we left the courtroom barely two hours ago, which was fraught with exhaustion, disbelief. This is filled with relief, lightness, promise.

A small smile, and I start to lead us out of the courtroom.

Her hand is yet again enclosed in mine, and pulls me back when she doesn't move. Turning, my heart races as she gives me the sexiest gaze I've ever seen.

She smiles – that gorgeous Montana smile I'd been aching to see again – as I close the gap between us, smiling back at her. Knowing what's coming.

She nudges closer, playful, teasing almost. Our noses brush, and breath mingle. My hands pull her closer still as my heart can't decide whether to speed up or stop.

And goddammit, if reporters aren't the bane of society.

Sighing, I squeeze through the throng of flashbulbs, tape recorders and mics, ignoring the shouted questions. Ducking down a smaller corridor, we escape out a fire exit into the fresh spring day. Not a reporter in sight. And she's still smiling. I finally think of something to say.

"Moo."

For a second she looks at me with an adorably quizzical expression – a kind of 'what-the-hell' look. Then, a snort of laughter, as her head falls against my chest, the most natural thing in the world. Her right hand is still enclosed in mine. The left is placed on my chest in support as she gazes up at me. It's that same expression from the courtroom and my knees feel weak.

Her head tilts to the side; a silent question. I grin, and her eyes light up, mirroring mine.

No damn reporters this time. No flashing bulbs, shouted comments. Just Montana and me, her lips pressing gently, sweetly against mine.

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A/N: Thank you for reading :-) As I knocked this off in an hour or so, it is unbeta-ed (or however you spell the word), so if anyone feels like reviewing, I'd very much appreciate it. Thanks!


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